


it happens quite quickly

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to kiss you.” Sherlock tells him, so close to the shell of his ear that it settles in the caverns of his head and grows there, spreading like bacteria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it happens quite quickly

It happens quite quickly, in reality, and not nearly as angry as John would have liked.

His stomach is twisted and tensed like a knot of barbed wire, steel and scratchy and digging into the walls of his flesh as he stares at the man who should be dead. There are ribbons of hot pain cursing through his blood, wrapping around his bones, weaving some delicate, intricate, and beautiful pattern.

No, he’s not _nearly_ angry enough; there’s plenty of rage stored up in veins, he has been collecting it and feeding it day after day and mothering it, a monstrous despicable foetus of everythings and nothings, and it needs release (but this is not the time). 

It should be, _but it isn’t_.

John lost his chance for fists when Sherlock spoke his name. He saw his opportunity drift feather light from the hollow of his throat and seep into fields of pale skin and cheekbones, depths and depths of dark curls and even darker eyes.

"I want to kiss you.” Sherlock tells him, so close to the shell of his ear that it settles in the caverns of his head and grows there, spreading like bacteria.

And of course John kisses him, how can he not? How can he not press their mouths together, push and push until one of them hits the wall and he isn’t sure who, he doesn’t care who because his tongue is in Sherlock’s mouth and his teeth are at Sherlock’s jaw and Sherlock - _Sherlock_ is clutching at his ribs, reaching through the layers of flesh and sinking right into him and there is so much to explore and learn and John thinks he can find the answers to everything he has been desperate to know (thinks he can find them in the strings of Sherlock’s throat and the valleys of his collar bone) and _he can taste himself losing_ , being pulled and pulled into an abyss of something he will never get out off. 

He hates him, right now. He hates him more than ever.

Except his hatred is multi-faceted, its layers are thin like pastry; each one just as delicate and laced with something that makes John want to suck at Sherlock’s hip bone. He pulls at Sherlock’s idiotic stupid ordinary _too ordinary_ t-shirt until he lifts his arms and is vaguely aware of a chair falling next to him, before he is slammed against the kitchen table, his knees buckling.

Sherlock has no idea what he’s doing and John knows this, and knows _Sherlock_ knows this, too.

It’s fucking satisfying.

  
There is a shake in the ligaments of John’s fingers as he unbuttons his own shirt, as he throws it against the fridge and Sherlock is all over him before it hits the floor. His large and intelligent hands are all over John’s body, John’s chest, John’s arms and sides and skin  ~~sin~~ and John thinks, he says with his eyes because he cannot speak; _have me._

Goosebumps prickle where his back meets the cool of the table and suddenly Sherlock looks conflicted. He looks doubtful. He looks as if he has been away from himself for the briefest of moments and has suddenly stepped back into his bones. 

“Don’t think, Sherlock, please just don’t.” And he takes the man’s wrists, holds them down against the table either side of his stomach and uses the anchorage to push himself up, to press their foreheads together and press their _minds_ together.

Sherlock’s lashes brush against his own and John breathes, for a few calm tendrils of time.

Then their lips mold back together, they battle and rage and storm and he sucks the man’s tongue, he tries as best he can to take every inch of him and keep it. 

And John feels, like he has longed to feel again every second since St Bart’s - _perhaps he has wanted this all his life_ -deliciously lost in Sherlock.


End file.
